Sulfur
by Sergeant Conley
Summary: The knowledge of what happened in the park that day, the day he met the Business Man, has been growing in Tony's chest like a balloon filling with acid. Now he hopes to drain it and let everything out, before it all just pops.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the television series _NCIS_ or any of the characters portrayed therein. I am writing this story simply for fun with no profitable intentions other than profits tomy sense of accomplishment and having fun.

I would also like to say here that this story features some theological ideas some readers might find unpleasant. That being said, keep in mind that this is fan_fiction_, and nothing here should be taken more seriously than however seriously you need to take it to seriously enjoy it as fiction.

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"_Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste/I've been around for a long, long year, stole many a man's soul and faith/And I was 'round when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain/Made damn sure that Pilate washed his hands and sealed his fate/Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name."_ – The Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil,"_ Beggar's Banquet_, 1968.

Never thought I'd be doing something like this.

Writing's always been Tim's thing. He's even gotten published a couple times and made some coinage off it, not without a little inspiration from yours truly, mind you. And Ziva. I guess.

Honestly I don't even know _why_ I'm writing this. I don't plan on showing it to anyone…what _am_ I gonna do with it?

Burn it. Yeah, I'll probably just burn it. Or shove it down my garbage disposal. Yeah, that'd be better. No matches.

'Cause showing this to someone isn't the important thing. It's _getting it out_ that's important, out of my chest before it pops like a balloon filling up with too much water. Or acid. Yeah, acid fits better.

'Course the balloon would have to be acid-resistant, wouldn't it? Otherwise the acid would just eat through it…maybe the balloon's chetin, like the aliens from _Aliens_…but then it wouldn't expand, would it?

I just felt a hand slap the back of my head, even though I'm alone in my apartment, and it's done two things: reminded me to get back on track, and remind me just _what_ that track is about. And the consequences.

Christ Almighty, the consequences.

You know I used to love the park? On my days off, I'd do some running and scout out the local selection, two birds with one stone. Then I'd grab lunch, head home, and enjoy some classics with the likes of Bogey and the Duke and Eastwood until I went out with some friends, or maybe even some of that local selection. Not during the winter, though, then I'd just go for a walk in some heavy clothes. But not too long ago, spring started warming things up, and I got back into my running schedule.

This past April 9 (hey, four plus nine…I just noticed that) I decided to further kill multiple birds with one stone (wonder if PETA's tried to sue and kill that phrase or somethin') and take a nice warm lunch, eat out, and enjoy the fresh air, touched up with the scent of shrimp and a nice creamy soup. Off the sidewalk in the park was a nice little stone table with matching stone seats built into the stone patio the set-up sat upon, and it had a wonderful view of uptown D.C. I planned on utilizing it.

I see a lotta bad things in my job, and lately I've learned that I need to appreciate the little things, like a nice lunch in the fresh air with a good view. Now I wish I'd just gone to the bar instead.

The sun was high and warm for us fragile beings below when I sat in one of the stone chairs. It helped combat the chill from the breeze brushing against the sweat on my skin, and all the conflicting climate temperature whatevers found an equilibrium that made everything perfect. I pulled the Tupperware bowls out of my lunchbox and set 'em on the table, pulling the top off the one with my soup before getting the plastic spoon and digging in. I was letting the warm elixir settle in my mouth while I untopped the shrimp, and the thought crossed my mind that my dad loved this kinda soup.

Dad. I really oughta talk about him before I go any further.

Anthony DiNozzo, Sr. (just Tony to his friends or people he was trying to make a deal with) is a…complicated man to talk about. He is, first and foremost, a businessman, and though it makes me feel horrible to say it, I think of him as such almost more than I think of him as a father. Before my mom died, he was kinda distant, sure, off on business a lot or more focused on his work when he was at home, but he was still there. He took me on a fishing trip when I was eight, and I can honestly say it's probably the best memory I have of him.

But after he became a widower…I don't know. I don't wanna say he stopped caring about me, 'cause I know he didn't (that doesn't sound like denial or anything, I know,) but it wasn't too big of a stretch to think he might've cared about his work more. I spent most of my childhood in boarding schools, and when I told him I planned to be a cop instead of going into the family business, he cut me off from our family funds.

Found out recently that there might not have been many, if any, actual funds to begin with. I don't know how long he's been doing it, but Dad's been conning people and living off money he doesn't have. I don't like it, but…he's my dad, ya know?

Like I said, it's complicated.

I'd been reflecting on my complicated musings for the umpteenth time when I was hit by a new smell in the air. It wasn't shrimp, that was for sure. It was a sharp and acrid stench that made me think of an unpleasant kinda heat.

"Well hello there," a voice said to my side, and I looked to see a man in a snappy black suit standing just off the stone patio in the grass that separated it from the sidewalk. I remember thinking _Man, it's probably gonna be a pain in the ass for him to clean the pollen off those shoes, _but when I looked I saw they were as shiny as if he'd just polished 'em.

In addition to his snappy suit and shoes, he wore a pair of black Oakleys that hid his eyes from every angle. His hair was dark and neatly brushed, his figure was sickly and thin, his skin pale to match, and he had a small smile on his face that I'd seen more times than I can count.

It was the smile of a businessman.

That smile said _Oh, you schmuck, if only you knew what I know_, and whatever he knew was likely a bit of information for whatever scam he was trying to work over on ya. Something in me immediately distrusted him, but another part of me said I was jumping the gun in judging him. After all, I'd often thought that after wearing that smile so much on the job, guys like this man probably forgot how to smile a real smile.

"Hi," I answered with a smile of my own, one that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Nice weather, huh?"

Why does every conversation with a stranger involve that question, anyways? You ever notice that?

I'm getting off track again. Don't need a phantom headslap to tell me that.

"It's definitely getting warmer, that's for sure," the man in the black suit replied as he walked onto the stone patio and took the seat opposite mine, his gaze going out to the view of D.C. before us. "Still too cold for my taste, though. My sinuses are being utterly _tortured_ by the chill."

I briefly wondered if this guy was from Miami or something (_Nah, skin's too pale,)_ and if he considered what he had bad sinuses, I'd hate to see what he considered congested, 'cause he sounded clear and fine as water. But my real concern was feeling slightly perturbed that he'd just assumed my greeting was an invitation to join me. Then I was wondering why it was bothering me so much.

_The smell,_ I thought. _There's something about that damn smell…_

It briefly occurred to me that I knew what the smell was, but before I could dwell on it further, the man in the black suit- no, I think by that point I'd already started thinking of him as the Business Man, turned to look directly at me with that smile.

"Out for a jog, friend?" he asked. His manner seemed…friendly, but not in the genuine good-hearted way. My investigator's gut told me he had something goin' on, and _damn_ that smell was bothering me.

That's when I connected the dots to a story my partner back in Peoria had told me when I first joined the force there. 1997, this woulda been. My partner's story was one his grandfather had shared about a man he'd met in the woods in a black suit. A man who had this god-awful odor about hi-

And _that's _when I finally recognizedwhat the smell was: sulfur. The smell of burnt matches, and under that I started thinking I could detect a hint of burnt charcoal.

"Yeah," I replied uneasily, my smile fading a little as I remembered who exactly my partner's grandpa had claimed to meet in the woods. Nah, that was crazy…

"Well, a man who does what you do needs to stay in shape, I'm sure," the Business Man answered as he turned this gaze back out onto the D.C. view.

_I never told him what I do…_

"And what do _you_ do?" I asked, and immediately thought _He probably makes deals…special deals to die for_.

"Oh, you've nailed it on the head, Mr. DiNozzo," he said, using my name for the first time and sending a shiver down my spine when he did. It felt like a sharp claw tickling down the trench in my back. "I'm a business man…I keep track of my stocks, maintain accounts, make trades to better my interests…and yes, I've made more than a few deals in my line of work."

I don't know why, but some part of me continued the conversation, despite the majority of my brain telling me to get up and walk away.

"I know about you and your 'business,' don't I."

"Oh, yes," he answered. His smile had never left his face, and it was starting to make the skin of my scrotum and armpits crawl. There was something else about it I didn't like at all. His teeth seemed too perfect and white and even…and weird as it was, it looked like he had too many.

"I had some 'educational' meetings with a young man in Austria," he explained, his smile now filled with pride. "I showed him why things weren't working with the government and the people in charge needed to change, _quickly_. I helped secure funding for a German doctor who had the most _interesting_ theories about twins and how their duplications affected what they could experience. My personal favorite experience, though, was in an advisory role: I played poker with a friend of mine named Edgar and his buddies down in Neshoba County, Mississippi, and convinced them they needed to teach some young punks a lesson and send a message about how things worked around there. Those are just a few of my past dealings, though, there're more. _Much_ more."

For a minute we both just sat there. I don't know what was going on in his head, and dear God knows I don't _ever_ wanna know, but in my head I was thinking I'd gone crazy. I mean, Old Scratch doesn't just sit down with you in the park, let alone sit with you for a nice _chat_. I mean, that's ludicrous, right? Right?

The Business Man's smile faded for the first time, showing a quirk of annoyance instead. He looked back at me and leaned forward on the table, his hands joining together as his forearms rested on the stone.

"Let's cut to the chase, Mr. DiNozzo," he said, his face bearing a stern look showing it was time for _real_ business, the kind that can change lives forever…often for the worse. "You know who I am, and your musings are accurate, for the record. And I know who you are. Let's not bother with pointless formalities like introductions and get down to brass tacks: why I'm here."

"Alright," I replied. My face was in full guarded interrogation mode, but inside I was panicking. This couldn't be happening could it? Was I really sitting at a table with who I thought I was, ready to likely make a deal for my soul? This couldn't be happening, this _couldn't be real._

"If you are who I think you are," I said, my voice calm despite the madhouse in my head. "Then I guess you're here to offer me something as part of one of your…'trades to better your interests?'"

"Not quite, but something like that," he said. "You see, I-" He was cut off by an awful gurgling sound from his throat, followed by an all too-familiar sound of him trying to hock something from his sinuses, not even bothering to cover his gaping mouth. Guess they were bad after all…

He stopped hocking and looked to the side, flinging a large glob of phlegm from his mouth. I followed the glistening gunk as it fell through the air, a liquid football that looked the color of infected pus. In the one moment it was airborne, my 20/10 vision sent the wildest message to my brain: there was steam trailing off it, like it was evaporating in the cool air.

Then it hit the grass and started _bubbling_, giving off this unsettling hissing sound as it did. It made me think of a deep fryer, the kind that men died from falling face first into in prison kitchen accidents…

The Business Man ignored it and looked back to me. "I'm in the all-too-rare position of making one particularly good kind of acquisition…one of those goody-too-shoes who did a very bad thing in your plane of existence, something so bad that, despite all their wonderful contributions to this wretched hive of existence, are just gonna end up in my domain for all time."

I got a very bad feeling in my gut that I was friendly with whoever he was talking about.

"Lemme guess: you're gonna offer to let me take their place? If the concept of damned souls works like I understand it, then I should already be on your reservation list."

The Business Man's face twitched into a new expression, a smirk. _Oh, you're so dense, but amusingly so_, that smirk seemed to say.

"Well, first of all, no," he replied. "While you would be quite a profit for me, your current final destination's already got dibs, unless something changes between now and your final judgment. Secondly, you're not on my reservation list because the concept of damned souls _doesn't_ work like you understand it."

"Then how _does_ it work?" I asked. It's a habit of mine to change the course of the conversation and draw it out while I try to think of a way out of whatever tight spot I'm in. In this case, my only hopes seemed to be either someone walking along and interrupting us somehow, or me just getting up and running away.

I had a very good feeling neither would work in the least.

"Well, for one thing, buying into…my _former employer's _fan clubs doesn't affect anything," the Business Man said. "It's all about what you do here, what difference or impact you make, and what sins you commit…and whether you repent for them or not. My former employer's establishment is the grand reward for those who help others, change lives for the better, make this world a 'better place,' all that sycophantic shit. The people who don't really matter in the grand scheme of things, and there _are_ such people, don't even think for a second there aren't, end up in a sort of…in-between."

"Purgatory?" I asked. I was still just stalling, but I gotta admit, some of this really did pique my interest. If any of it was real (and I _wholly_ wish it wasn't,) then at the least, I was learning the answers to some of the most important questions people ask themselves.

It crossed my mind that I'd probably never be able to share this with Tim, and rub it in his face that I found something like that out. I wasn't surprised that I didn't really want to, anyway.

The Business Man untangled his long, skeletal fingers, and raised his hands up in a pantomime of a shrug, quirking his eyebrows to go with the gesture. "If calling it that's easier for you to understand, then yes, Purgatory. Souls that end up there find a more bland existence than the two extremes presented by the other possibilities, and if they so choose they can return to this plane in a new vessel for another chance at getting into the sunshine suites."

"Reincarnation? Like in Hinduism?"

"Yes," he growled. His voice sounded like he'd explained this a thousand times before, and it only aggravated him more every time. "Not one of your whack-job weekly book clubs gets it all right, but each one gets a little bit of _something_ right."

He stopped as a mosquito landed on the back of his left hand. He watched it with what was clearly a glare of impatience, and I could almost picture him tapping his foot under the table. The mosquito stuck his skin with its needle-mouth-thing, and only seemed to get a sample before it tried to abandon ship. The poor sucker never stood a chance, though, its flight path slow and jerky like a drunk behind the wheel of a car. It only flew for a second or two before it simply fell onto the table dead.

"And then there's _my_ establishment," the Business Man said, picking up right where he left off, and his smile coming right back with it, for a moment at least. "_Mi casa_ is the destination for those who're _really_ rotten, or those who've done the most rotten of things. Most of them are murderers, or masterminds of such. Believe you me, when Charlie M. kicks the bucket, he'll get an express seat to my poker table. Then of course there're the sexual deviants, men who like to force themselves on women or tickle little boys and girls in the naughty bits, or women who do the same. And of course there are the violent hate mongers like my friend Ed, or those queer stompers you rounded up not too long ago. Hm, funny enough, faggots aren't actually sexual deviants, despite what some of your pitchmen think."

He started chuckling, then stopped as he began hocking again. After a few minutes, he seemed to give up, and I found my eyes going back to where the last glob had been deposited. The gunk was gone, but it'd marked its final resting place: a brown patch of dead grass that I never expected to see alive and green again.

"But every now and then," the Business Man said, recapturing my attention. "I get a guy who did something really wrong but otherwise lived a good life, a _meaningful_ one. I once got this mayor from somewhere in Iowa, had a heart attack on the shitter like the King. If you only looked at his accomplishments in his adult life, bettering the local veterans' hospital, lowering taxes, shit like that, he'd be a low-level entry into…my competing establishment, _maybe_. But if you went back to his high school days, when he shoved a fellow soccer player who couldn't swim into the local rough 'n' tumble river for 'special touching' his sister, and managed to convince the authorities the kid tripped, and got off for murder, well, he made my guest list easy."

I sat there and really realized just _how many_ people he must have on his guest list, several of whom I'd personally interacted with in some way.

"So he didn't even get a partial pass and just get stuck in Purgatory or back here 'cause the creep he killed was one of your 'deviants?'" I asked, _praying_ for someone to come along and ask why I was talking to thin air, 'cause I just _knew_ I was the only one who could see the Business Man.

But then again, what Joe Schmo would walk up _to_ the crazy guy rambling to himself in the park?

"Nope," he said with an easy, relaxed smile. "He wasn't the least bit sorry for doing it, and unrepentant murder is unrepentant murder, and that's _my_ purview." He said that last part with that businessman's smile back up to full wattage, and then it took on an almost predatory, _eager_ look to it.

_Oh, you schmuck, if only you knew what I know_

"That brings me to _you_, Mr. DiNozzo."

Two things went through my mind at once. The more prominent of them was a bit of advice my father had given me in my days of adolescence, one of the few, _genuine_ attempts he made to help shape me as a boy growing into a man.

"_Junior,"_ he'd said, _"If there are three words in life to live by, they're 'all sales final.' Treat every decision you make like a transaction that can never, _ever_ be undone, that way you'll think be as careful as possible, and won't make a choice you might regret. Remember Junior: all sales final."_

Meanwhile, my mind tried to sift through all the different ways I could think of redirecting the conversation, but the panic made me instead think of what the hell he was talking about. I've killed a few people, yeah, but those were all in the line of duty, self-defense. I hadn't _murdered_ anybody, let alone felt it was utterly justified.

And then it hit me, who he was really talking about, and everything came to a screeching halt.

"No," I said. "No, not him. You can't mean him, he, he…"

_He_ was Leroy Jethro Gibbs, my team leader at NCIS and…well, it's not as complicated as describing my dad but…I'm still not really into the idea of-

Hey wait a minute. I don't _have_ to describe him at all, no one's gonna actually see this! I could pretend you already know everything there is to know about him, and it wouldn't matter a _damn!_

Yep, it's official, you know Gibbs.

…but apparently, so did the Business Man.

"Oh, I do." His smile was so wide and _shit_-eating that I found myself thinking of the pranks I've pulled on Tim over the years, and the fact that I've had _any_ expression on my face that the Business Man did too made my stomach lurch.

I stammered for a bit before finally untangling my tongue. "But he's a _Marine! _He served his country for fifteen years, and he's been putting away killers, rapists, kidnappers, and _worse_ for almost another _two decades_ now!"

"And he blew a man's brains out of his skull from a mile away, and hasn't ever felt the least bit sorry for it," the Business Man countered. "He now acknowledges it was the wrong thing to do, true, and if he had the chance, he'd change his actions…but these feelings don't come from remorse or regret. Just the knowledge that it makes him no better."

_Oh, you schmuck, if only you knew what I know._

His eyebrows shot up, as if suddenly remembering something important. "Oh yeah, and then of course there's Caesar. You remember him, right? The thuggin' 'n' buggin' prick you guys didn't quite have enough evidence on, who turned up dead in a dumpster? Your boss's hands were clean in the literal sense, but in truth he arranged the whole thing. Best part? Not a bit of remorse for that, either. Double whammy, the loss is legit, now Jethro's gotta pay in a flaming pit."

I just sorta sat there, dumbstruck. Finally, I managed to speak. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Well," he sighed contentedly as he reclined back in the stone seat, his arms relaxing on the armrests. "I could just wait for Jethro to kick the bucket and collect..but that's just so mundane, so _boring._ I figured, 'why not go ahead and have a little fun with this? And hey! I might even get to make a profit off of it.'"

I remembered what he'd said earlier, about how I'd be quite a profit for him, but he had something else in mind.

"I'm gonna give you a chance to save him. Send him up to…'Purgatory,' where he won't be in a paradise of true happiness, but he won't be one of the eternally suffering damned, either. _But_…you'd have to put someone in his place."

I'm not gonna lie. Not one bit. My mind immediately went to Agent Sacks. That sounds like a joke, I know, but it's not. I seriously had _no_ hesitation in choosing a man I only barely knew to be condemned to eternal torment and damnation.

What does that say about me? Not enough, as you'll soon see…

"Not just anyone, though," the Business Man continued. "A specific someone I have in mind. You will essentially have to choose which of these two are gonna be my guest of honor."

I gulped, and it sounded thunderous to me. "Alright…who is it…Gibbs or…?"

His smile quirked before he said, "Anthony DiNozzo."

You'd think I would've been confused and say something like, _"But you said I wasn't on the table,"_ or something like that. But when he said my name, I immediately knew who he was talking about…

"That's right, Junior," the Business Man said. "Your old man, or _the_ old man."

At first, everything was just sorta blank. Then I did that scared laugh people do when they're wondering if the bad news they just heard is for real, and they just don't know any other way to react.

"You-You mean I have to, to actually _choose_, to send either Gibbs or my-my _father_ to Hell?"

"YYYep."

I sat there for a minute, and then I started giggling. I think I might've gone just a little bit crazy sitting there with him.

"Well I'm not!" I said, now almost fully laughing, like I'd gotten some hee-larious joke. "You actually think I'd make that choice?"

"Oh, you will," the Business Man said. He leaned forward on the table again, leaned in close like some conspirator about to share a juicy secret. "Because if you don't, I'll make the best profit of all and just take them _both_."

Now it was _his_ turn to giggle, and that giggle summed up everything. _Oh, you schmuck, I've got you now._

I just sorta sat there for a moment while all this tried to process. My mouth kept trying to work, but nothing would come out, until finally my vocal chords found their power function.

"You-You're really gonna make me do this." It came out subdued, not even really a question.

"MM-hm," he nodded.

I stopped wishing I'd gone to the local sports bar instead of the park long enough to ask what was, in hindsight, a pretty stupid question.

"Why? Why come to me, why _do_ this?"

He smiled wider, baring his perfectly even, too-white-and-too-many teeth again.

"Because at the end of the day, you're a good person," he said as he reached a hand towards the bowl of shrimp, now long-cold, before me. "And there's no better thing in the world than making a good person suffer."

He dug to the bottom of the bowl, and when he withdrew his hand, he pulled a fat, dirty nightcrawler with it, dangling between his thumb and forefinger as it wriggled for freedom.

"Especially when they _squirm_, like this little critter here, like I can see _you_ are, just by looking into your eyes."

Then he raised his head and opened his mouth wide, and I could feel (and _smell)_ a more sick and oppressive wave of heat than I ever thought possible on Earth. It made me wince and cough, even as he closed his lips around one end of the nightcrawler and slurped it up like a spaghetti noodle.

He looked at me as he chewed, and by the time he swallowed and snorted in amusement, I was fighting to keep my stomach contents down. Then he started doing that hiss some people do when they're about to launch into a laughing fit.

"And besides," he said. "I don't _need_ a reason! I'm doing this just because I _can_, Junior."

He smiled at me again, and when he did I saw something that I can honestly say horrified me more than anything I had ever, _ever_ seen in my life.

His teeth weren't too perfectly white and even anymore. They were still too many, oh hell yes they were, but they weren't any semblance of white, even, or perfect. They were dark, dank, and messy, the color of dirty bones that have been left in a shallow grave for a few years, and they were pasted with dried blood and what I knew were flecks of human skin.

But worst of all, they were _sharp,_ infernal spikes of suffering and pain that were thirsty.

You ever see _It_, with Tim Curry as the psycho-clown monster Pennywise? You remember the part in the beginning when he grabs the little brother's arm in the gutter drain, and eats it with those teeth? They were the clean, happy version of what I saw.

Looking at them gave me this horrible feeling inside that I don't think I can ever describe, but I'm gonna try my hardest.

It was like a slab of concrete had just formed inside me and was sitting on top of my stomach, pushing down on it, my intestines, my bladder, my testicles, _everything_ down below, they were all just being compacted under this immense weight. My heart was hammering in my chest, the air I breathed had this sickly taste to it, my pores were _bleeding_ sweat, and there was something in the air around me. There was this low frequency buzzing static just on the edge of my hearing, but it was _in my head_ too, like a fog that was mucking everything up.

This smile seemed to be the real him, though, because while it was going full blast, the rest of his face, what I could see around the Oakleys, relaxed, as if it'd lost all power and was diverting it to his cheeks and lips.

"Because I can."

But all of that stopped when he closed his lips and hid those teeth. His full face regained full power, and all those horrible things inside me went away. When he next opened his mouth to speak, I flinched, fearing the sight I'd see, but his pearly-whites were back, and all I had to worry about was what he had to say.

"Tell ya what, Junior, I'll give you a few minutes to think it over. But when I ask, you're gonna tell me who I'll be expectin' when they bite the big one."

He leaned back and looked out at the D.C. view as I just sat there. My mind was totally blank. I couldn't make this choice. There was no way I could _choose_ to condemn either my dad…or the closest thing I had to a real one.

Across the table from me, the Business Man began singing to himself.

"Trailers for sale or rent…"

In my head, I saw my dad, with a Long Island Iced Tea in his hand and a smile on his face…a businessman's smile.

"Rooms to let, fifty cents…"

I tried to remember a time when he'd smiled a _real_ smile, and could only think of one instance: the fishing trip from when I was eight, right before my mom died.

"No phone, no pool, no pets…"

I thought of when I'd first joined NCIS, back in 2001. Gibbs was a nightmare, and I often wondered why I bothered sticking with him. He couldn't even remember my name! But then one day, he'd come in after I'd stayed at the office overnight, working on the case with literally no sleep. I made an assload of breaks, and when I came back from a three hour nap, I found a cup of coffee waiting for me on my desk.

"I ain't got no cigarettes, and…"

I thought of my dad's only words to me that could be considered a father trying to do right by his son. _"All sales final, Junior. All sales final."_

"Two hours spent pushin' broom, will get ya…"

I thought of the rules…and of Gibbs looking me in the eye. _"I'm proud of you, Anthony."_

"An eight by twelve four-bit room…"

I thought of a hotel room I stayed alone in for two whole days when I was a kid. Dad had brought me to the city for a business trip, and had gone to a "meeting."

"I'm a, _man_ of means by no means…"

I thought of Gibbs standing beside me while I choked on gunk and phlegm in my scarred, literally plague-ridden lungs, there for me when my father wasn't. _"You. Will. Not. Die."_

"King of the Rooaad…"

I thought of my dad pulling the picture of our fishing trip out of his wallet, saying he carried it with him everywhere, and feeling a spark of hope.

Oh God…

I was so lost in my memories that I didn't notice that the Business Man had stopped singing and was staring at me. When I did, he and I locked eyes. Well, eyes and shades.

It was time.

"Well, Junior…have you made your choice?"

It made me sick to my stomach, but I knew I had.

But when I said the choice aloud, the name that came out of my mouth wasn't the same one that was in my head.

The Business Man's smile shrunk a bit, and his eyebrows rose up. "Are you _sure_ that's who you choose?" he asked teasingly.

_No, no it's not!_ I wanted to scream. I wanted to say my _real_ choice, but I kept quiet.

His smile faded even more into a drawn frown of mock seriousness, his eyebrows raised even higher. "Now, you're positive? You know the rules, Junior, all sales final."

That made me wanna cry, but that was nothing compared to the panic I felt on the inside as I tried to correct my mistake. But once again, I stayed quiet.

He smirked in satisfaction and victory before standing. He looked down at me one last time, his eyebrows raised again and his voice just as teasing as before. "Last chance to change your mind, Junior. Speak now, or forever hold your peace, forever and ever amen."

I only stared at him, my eyes wet with tears, because I _did_ want to change my answer, I _did I did I did,_ but goddammit why _couldn't I?_

All sense of teasing and mockery left him, his smile returned to full and victorious life…and he began reaching for his sunglasses.

I don't know how or why, but I knew, I just _knew_ that I _could NOT_ look into his eyes, and so I looked away, my own gaze finding the grass and the dead brown patch.

What came over me was so much worse than what I felt when I'd stared at his smile, his _real_ smile. It was like my face was being held right before the open yaw of an oven, the kind they used for bodies in concentration camps. That concrete slab wasn't just sitting on my innards, it was _grinding_ them, and there were cleats or spikes on the bottom of it. My urethra felt like a thousand hot needles were jabbing it with reckless abandon, and my prostate felt like it was twitching and _infected._ My colon squeezed so tightly closed that it hurt, and I didn't know if I'd ever be able to take a dump again. That muck in my head was like a blanket, smothering everything, and that static was a roaring bassy buzz that made me wanna scream.

"Well, Mr. DiNozzo, it's been a pleasure doing business with you," the Business Man said as I sat there, hoping I would die so that I could stop experiencing this. "I doubt we'll ever have the chance to meet again, but you never know. Anyways, I have appointments to meet, so without further ado, I'll be on my way."

The heat, the pain, the muck, the buzz, it all just suddenly stopped, and I found myself taking in deep, gasping breaths and coughing, because it seemed I'd stopped breathing. I didn't even see the Business Man as he walked past me and continued on his way, whistling some tune I may or may not have recognized, I don't remember.

I don't remember how long I just sat there. I think I might have been in shock, I don't know. Finally, I just picked up my Tupperware and lunchbag, walked to the nearest garbage can I saw, and chucked it all in. I'd walked three steps away when I turned around, ran right back to it, and threw up.

* * *

That was about four weeks ago, I think. Since then, the knowledge of what I did there has been swelling and twitching in me like an infected zit full of pulsating pus. I'm surprised it hasn't affected my work, much, but it will before too long, and so I'm hoping that writing this will be like puncturing the zit to bleed it out, rather than it all popping in me when I should be having somebody's back.

Like I should've had Gibbs's back.

He knows something's wrong. He saw it the first day I came in, a week after my run-in in the park. They'd all been a bit worried, I never call in sick, let alone for seven whole days. And I've been pretty doom and gloom, too. I'm normally a chipper, oh-so happy guy, but now I don't talk unless it's something important, I don't try to be anywhere alone with Gibbs, and I might as well have a thundercloud over my head.

Almost everyone's tried to talk to me about it. Ducky and Abby were to be expected, it's like their natural roles to try and find out our problems to fix. Ziva gave it a shot too, but Palmer was the real surprise.

Once, Gibbs told me to follow him and went to the elevator. I stood right outside it, only staring at him while he stood there, waiting for me to go in.

I walked away.

The only one who hasn't tried is my probie. I catch Tim looking at me with that worried look, but he's got the most expressive face of anyone I know, and I've always been able to see what he's really thinkin'. He's worried, but he knows if I wanted help I'd try to find it. I don't doubt that he'll finally come to me at some point, but for now he's letting me have my space, like I want.

If there's one thing from all this that I'd want him to know, it's how much I appreciate that.

At some point, I started going back to that park on my days off and sitting at that table. I wanna be _anywhere_ else in the world but there, but I go there anyway. 'Cause I hope someday he'll come back, and I can fix my mistake, so I can look Gibbs in the eye again and not feel like the traitor that I am. But he never does, and I only end up sitting there all day.

Sitting there, staring at the patch of dead grass that'll never grow again, and _squirming_ like a nightcrawler. And that's what he wants, and why he'll never come back.

I was there two days ago when Ziva showed up. She stood before me, talking about how I'd grown despondent, how obvious it was that something was _wrong_, and that if I didn't talk to someone about it, it would never be fixed.

It would never be fixed.

I broke down sobbing. A part of me had always wanted to, but I didn't think I deserved the relief. But finally, my dam just broke. My zit just popped.

Ziva sorta flinched, surprised by my outburst, and eventually she wrapped her arms around me, trying to comfort me. I could tell she felt awkward as hell about it, but she did it anyway. 'Cause that's what teammates, what partners, what _friends_ do. They help each other…not sell each other out.

I wonder if Gibbs would believe me, if I told him about all this, and if he did, would he forgive me.

'Cause God knows I never will.

All sales final.

Forever and ever, amen.

**Written by**

**Sergeant Conley**

**Author's Notes:** I wanted to leave this at the end so that I could give credit where I think it's due, without spoiling the identity of the Business Man. Not that it wasn't obvious enough, but what the hey.

My biggest inspirations for this fic were two Stephen King short stories: "The Man in the Black Suit" and "Riding the Bullet." I essentially combined elements from both stories, with a touch of "Fair Extension" from King's latest novella collection _Full Dark, No Stars,_ and dropped Tony into the muck that resulted. Poor guy.

I also need to acknowledge the video game _Red Dead Redemption,_ where a minor character known as the Strange Man served as a spark for my conceptualization of the Business Man.

Finally, this story was written for the Supernatural Challenge at the NFA boards. Whether you leave a review to tell me so or not, I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
